LIFF 2010: KOSMOS review

Reha
Erdem's brilliant Kosmos is strange in a way few films beyond
experimental cinema ever manage to be. The story of a visitor to a
lonely, insular Turkish city and how the people there react to him,
it's not merely that it's one of those movies where nothing makes
much logical sense or that it tackles very highbrow themes without a
shred of irony. Above all else it never seems particularly interested
in explaining itself, never throwing the audience more than a cursory
bone to help them understand what's going on.

The
stunning cinematography makes it obvious pretty early on there's more
to Erdem's film than empty arthouse posturing, and there are enough
moments of wonder dotted throughout the running time to
keep reinforcing that idea, but even the most patient viewer will
probably wonder at some point whether it's worth sitting through the
whole thing.

Yet
persevere until the home stretch, and Kosmos does come together.
Story threads are suddenly, elegantly wound up. The tone grows
steadily darker and the whole thing closes on a quietly devastating
note of pathos that - while it doesn't answer every question -
demonstrates Erdem knew precisely what he was doing all along.

Kosmos
(Sermet Yesil) doesn't seem to have planned on stopping, at least to
start with. He's introduced running through the wilderness in the
snow, weeping to himself, and merely stops by the river running past
the outskirts of town to try and hide something in the rocks. Then
he's distracted by a scream. A young boy's fallen into the river.
When Kosmos drags him out his older sister Neptun (Türkü Turan)
assumes he's brought her brother back to life.

The
townsfolk don't know what to make of Kosmos. He acts like a forgetful
child, constantly distracted by something no-one else can see, but he
comes out with aphorisms like a scholar. Whether or not he revived
the boy, he does seem to be able to see right to the heart of
people's problems, curing illness and counselling the troubled
without any thought of reward. Everyone thinks Kosmos must be some
kind of magician, and he's left largely to his own devices. But it
turns out not everyone appreciates his help, with some violently
rejecting his suggestions.

Conversations
play out in solemn, theatrical cadences. Everything comes loaded with
obvious deep meaning. We do see some characters doing relatively
mundane things (manual labour, or taking out the trash), unlike some
arthouse productions, but it's only ever to stand in for a plot point
or underlying theme. Nothing is ever set out in black and white. The
people guard their borders closely, arguing over the prospect of
closer relations with a neighbouring city - though we never find
out conclusively what sets the two apart beyond the general idea they're just
different.

On top
of this there's the general impression Kosmos himself isn't very
likeable, or at least relatable. He's so removed from worldly
concerns as to seem almost alien, utterly unconcerned about the harm
he might be causing, then terrified by the idea he's done anything
wrong. He seems incapable of interacting with people in any normal
way, taking what he needs, reacting on an almost animal instinct. For
most of his scenes with Neptun they even communicate in wordless,
birdlike screams.

Ridiculous
as that probably sounds, it's these scenes that anchor the film.
Kosmos is much more than a simple messiah figure, and it's Neptun
who's the first one to really see that. Under his childlike
mannerisms there's something basically decent but inhuman,
otherworldly and not a little frightening, and she's responding to
him as honestly as she knows how. The couple share a love scene of
sorts later in the film - there's no nudity, let alone sex, but
they're clearly expressing something much more than a platonic bond.
It's an astonishing moment, raw, naked and emotive; it's pure joy
translated into some absolutely jaw-dropping visuals and sound
design, and part of the tragedy of the story is the way not everyone
else can connect with Kosmos on a similar level.

At the
same time, Erdem seems to give the impression Kosmos can't force that
connection, either, that he doesn't fully understand what he's
capable of. He's the one who sets the climax in motion when one of
his interventions goes badly wrong, and you can draw a number of
parallels here - basic human obstinacy in the face of the truth,
the way people with the answers often can't explain them, and how
these relate to the Turkish struggle for identity. The effort
required to puzzle out the story is sometimes frustrating, and many
people - understandably - won't want to bother. But the pieces
are definitely there.

Kosmos
is too dense, too obtuse to be an outright masterpiece. You get the
feeling Erdem leaves his audience hanging a little too long, and
dresses up a little too much of the narrative in what is basically
smoke and mirrors, however attractive. It's not a film for everyone
(plus one character works at a slaughterhouse, and vegetarians or the
squeamish may want to stay away from the repeated shots of dying animals). But
it's still a gorgeous, bittersweet parable deeper and more
intelligent than countless better-known films covering the same
ground, and for those prepared to put the work in the payoff is
immense. Flawed though it might be Kosmos still qualifies as one of
the best films of the year, and comes hugely recommended.

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